“What do you mean?”
“In 1807 congress finally agreed to no more slave importation after 1808. No more slave ships. I add that the North had slaves, too.”
“That I knew, but let me back up here. His focus was on the average person?”
Harry smiled. “Now, Coop, you know there are no average people, especially in Virginia, and especially on the day of Jefferson’s birth.”
“Right.”
“It’s obvious you think that Professor McConnell’s murder has something to do with his work.”
Cooper sighed again. “We have to consider every possibility just as Ginger would. This was a historical issue. No obvious deep-seated family troubles. You can only cover them up so much. No heated jealousy among his colleagues, many of whom are also retired. Professor Brinsley Sims kept up a close working relationship with him. Sims has been helpful. Nothing that Professor McConnell worked on had any bearing on a corporation’s profits. It wasn’t like he was investigating something that could be tied to climate change.” She shrugged. “But you don’t kill someone on the golf course without a powerful motive.”
“Could this have something to do with golf?”
Cooper shook her head. “I know people get mad enough to kill, but still—”
“It’s a game that’s good for business,” Harry shrewdly commented, “especially for older women, women who went to school before Title Nine, can’t pull together like Nelson Yarbrough and his football teammates, but if they play golf, they can go out and hit with their corporate bosses and coworkers. They’ll learn the rudiments of teamwork. Maybe I should say teamwork as defined by men.”
“Hadn’t thought of that.” Cooper rested her hand on her chin. “Harry, would you make me another cup of tea? I am just dragging my ass. This one cup helped a little.”
“Sure. I could use a second one too.”
As Harry boiled water, Mrs. Murphy pushed through the animal doors, followed by Pewter.
Pewter got straight to the point. “Are they eating anything? I don’t smell anything.”
“No,” the dog replied.
“Can’t you beg?” Pewter encouraged the dog.
“No.” Tucker was in no mood to humor the cat, whom she considered a conceited pest.
Mrs. Murphy leapt onto the kitchen counter to tap at a cabinet. “This will work.”
As the steam spiraled out of the teapot snout, Harry opened the cabinet, tossed down some dried treats. “How about some cookies?” she asked Cooper.
The police officer considered this. “What kind of cookies?”
“Picky, picky. Shortbread cookies? The real kind.”
“I would love a cookie.”
With cookies on the plate and fresh cups of tea, they returned to discussing Professor McConnell.
“Did he enjoy retirement?” Cooper asked.
Harry immediately replied, “He never truly retired. The university, as a mark of esteem and gratitude, allowed him to keep his office, and he did have office hours. He didn’t teach anymore, but he would confer with students, help them with studies, and he would give a special lecture if asked. Trudy always said, ‘Thank God.’ He’d have driven her mad underfoot.”
“Wives always say that, don’t they?”
“Sure seems to be the case.” Harry smiled. “Ginger’s old students like Paul Huber, Nelson Yarbrough, and Marshall Reese would drop in on him, as well as other professors. He was constantly busy. No, Ginger really didn’t retire.”
“I guess the worst thing you can do is to stop working, if you love your work, that is.” Cooper bit into a delicious thick shortbread cookie. “I love these things. Okay, do you know what he was working on when he died?”
“At Reverend Jones’s dinner, Ginger mentioned renewing his study of The Albemarle Barracks, reviewing old church records, land acquisitions, and agricultural growth. He thought of it as a peek into everyday life. He also tried to find old family Bibles.”
“Why family Bibles?”
“We didn’t have a census in this country until 1790. Anything you want to know before that, you need family Bibles or maybe court records if someone had a suit brought against them or was arrested. That’s it.” She thought for a moment. “Church records, baptisms, burials, and marriages. Many a priest and pastor kept records, and, I almost forgot, enlistment records for militias. Remember, we didn’t have a standing army.”
“I knew about the standing army but not about the census. I can see that he’d need to visit people and places. Isn’t a lot of this on the Internet by now?”
“The public record, not family Bibles or church records. And Virginia still carries the mark of 1865. Thousands and thousands of records, family or public, were burned all across the state after Appomattox.”
“Why?”
“People feared that after losing the war the men who fought for the Confederacy could be hanged as traitors. I don’t think we can ever truly appreciate the chaos experienced then, and it would be even more chaotic if one had been a slave. Now you are free. Free to do what? Run, stay? Where could a man or woman hope to make a life for themselves, a life free of threat? But most of the records earlier than that were saved. Too far back to cause harm in 1865, 1866.”
“Weren’t soldiers also in fear of being branded traitors to the Crown during the Revolutionary War?”
“Coop, sure. If we’d lost, the trees would have been filled with hanged men. As it was, if you were a Continental soldier caught carrying a message, you were hanged. We returned the favor. You know, Coop, we’ve become narcotized by violence. Two huge World Wars, endless violence on television and in films, we forget that the Revolutionary War was no sure thing and it could be brutal.”
“War. Going on, as we speak, in other places.”
“I’m beginning to think that to kill is to be human,” said Harry. “Not a happy thought,” she paused, “especially when I think of Ginger.”
Cooper glanced at the large clock on the wall. “Well, I am awake. I don’t know if I’ve learned anything that can help me find who killed Ginger McConnell, but I’ve learned a lot.” The lean woman smiled at her neighbor and friend.
“You’re just starting in this. Murder is usually easy, at least that’s what you’ve told me, because it generally signals someone losing their self-control. Drugs and drink may help there, or if they’re standing over the corpse with a gun, a knife, or a brickbat.”
“That’s what worries me about this one,” said Cooper. “Premeditated murders are a lot harder to solve. This is premeditated.”
Harry walked Cooper to the screened-in porch door.
“Thought of one more thing,” said Harry. “It isn’t much, but Mother once told me that Ginger had to break up a romance between his daughter and a football player. Lots of emotion.”
“Name?”
“I don’t know.”
“Thanks again for the tea.” Cooper made a mental note to ask some of the old football players if they remembered.
As Cooper drove off, Harry said out loud, “Maybe it’s better to die a swift death than to linger with some horrible malady.” Then she caught herself. “How can I even think that about Ginger?”
“Needless suffering is cruel,” Tucker remarked. “Think of those deer and bear who are wounded, and it takes them days or weeks to die. That’s cruel. You’ve got to finish off your game.”
“I hardly think a professor emeritus of history is fair game,” Mrs. Murphy drily noted.
November 12, 1779
Each day at march’s end or when the prisoners were allowed a brief respite from marching, Lieutenant Charles West would pull out a notebook and draw a farmhouse, a meandering creek, rock outcroppings, the roll of a hill or the shape of a tree. These things interested him, but he also wanted to forever remember this march. Over the last year many captured soldiers had made this journey. Leaving a week ago, West’s group of veterans from the Battle of Saratoga was one of the last to leave Cambridge, Massachusetts. Outranked in his group by a Captain Graves from the Royal Irish Artillery as well as by a Hessian dragoon captain, West thought Graves a prophetic name for a dragoon.